


Leaving Center Stage

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: AU, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Dancing, F/M, Family Death, Family Issues, Jealousy, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:58:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8060929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: It takes three days to get to Paris. The first two days are a learning experience, but by day three he is settling into the vibration of the train. His joints rattle and roll, his eyes adjust to rays of light that filter in and out of the passing windows. He turns another page in his book and instead of focusing on the words, he watches the small woman approach his compartment. She passes through a cut of the raw sunlight and stops his heart. 
She glances over, catches his eye, and smiles. Something in his chest squeezes and his grip on the novel tightens. He forgets his place, fingers curling in the pages as her hand raises. Her fingers wave to him as she goes by, leaving him with a pounding heart.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thoughtsthatfester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsthatfester/gifts).



> The incredibly talented @thoughtsthatfester posted a prompt: someone write me this fic: gaby is a professional ballerina and ends up with the Soviet Ballet and Illya accompanies them on a cultural exchange trip to keep them from defecting… and they fall in love -- and I loved the idea so much I asked if I could take it on.

She is the prima ballerina, slight in her movements and perfectly precise. The music picks up and so does her dance. Gaby sweeps across the stage, her arm curving up over her head at the bend in her elbow. She moves to the final edge of the spotlight and the symphony crescendos. With the end of the music she holds her pose and then the crash of applause rings out. Sweat slips down the curve of her cheek,cutting through her thick make-up. She keeps her poise until the spotlight dims to nothing. The theatre goes dark and the curtains close. She finishes her final move and stretches. The rest of the ballerinas exit stage and Gaby lingers behind for a moment, sucking in a sharp breath. The rush of the show washes over her and she stands alone on the stage, shut curtains muffling the sounds of the applause. 

The adrenaline starts to fade and Gaby holds her head up for just a moment, closing her eyes tight. There's a soft hissing noise off to her side and Gaby looks over to see her Uncle Rudi waving her over. She nods and moves from her spot, padding across the stage. Her shoes are pinching her feet, but she manages to keep a soft smile on her face when her uncle pulls her in for a hug. He smells of bourbon and caviar, which make her nose crinkle against the edge of his collar.

“My darling Gabriella.” He strokes the side of her face, smearing up the thick eyeliner by her brow. She tilts her head back from him a bit, waving her hands as if to swat him away.

“Uncle.” She nods to him as he takes her wrist and pats the back of her hand gently in a manner that tells her that he has news for her. Whether or not it’s bad or good, she’s not certain but he passes a bouquet of flowers to her, kissing the top of her head loudly for show. It's always for show. 

The backstage hands clap and awe at the two of them before Rudi slides a hand to the small of her back and ushers her towards the row of vanity mirrors where Gaby’s place is open. Tulle skirts are piling up and there’s a dusting of glitter everywhere as the next set of dancers get ready to take the stage. Gaby sits at the vanity, staring blindly at her reflection. The lights around her are brilliant and cast a golden glow over her. She wants to stretch out and bask in the light, pretend she’s on the stage again just to hear the roar of the orchestra in her ears. After a moment, her uncle’s face appears next to her own and Gaby blinks away her daydreams and takes in her uncle’s dark eyes and sallow skin. 

“My Gaby.” He practically preens at the words, putting his hands on her shoulders, squishing down the tulle of her costume. He stands tall behind her while she reaches up and starts pulling at the pins holding her hair up. The perfect bun begins to break apart, falling into her face. Her dark hair brushes her cheek and she hums softly as he massages at her shoulders. “I found a great offer for you.” 

He sounds proud and her heart jumps. Gaby nearly knocks over half of the perfume bottles and makeup on her vanity table turning to look up at him. The great stage of the Royal Opera House sparkle behind her eyes and she nearly squeals, “Uncle, you did it. You got us into London!” Her excitement is almost tangible, but Rudi simply shakes his head.

“No, no my dear. Even better. I have you a spot in the Soviet Ballet, a chance at the Bolshoi.” 

Gaby’s stomach sinks low. She feels as if she’s swallowed a hefty dose of kerosene and at any moment her skin will burst into flames. She exhales and shakes her head, “But, Uncle, I cannot leave here just yet. I mean, I still have training to do.” Gaby turns back to the mirror and moves her fingers along the vanity, playing with kohl pencils as her uncle sighs behind her. 

“Now Gaby.” He must be able to feel her disappointment as her hands move up to her hair and she pulls at her curls, taking them down. She reaches for the tissues next, rubbing at her eyes. The black makeup smears and she feels her uncle pat her shoulders. “Things are looking up for us my dear. You’re going to be a star.” 

Gaby nods and Uncle Rudi leaves her to finish getting changed. She strips off her leotard, peeling off the second skin to change into loose-fitting pants and a small button-up shirt that keeps her comfortable as she slings the clothes bag over her shoulder. Her feet still ache even when she switched into her soft leather boots. he ignores the pain in her calves as she moves along the winding maze of the backstage, making a mental note to ice her muscles. She leaves out the backdoor of the theatre, passing through a thick haze as the stagehands smoke one cancer stick after another. A car hums on the side street. Her uncle has his coat on, umbrella in hand. The sweet smell of rain threatening to fall assaults her and she sucks in a deep breath of it, holding in her last shred of hope before sweeping herself up into the car.

\----

In Moscow she is not the prima ballerina.

No matter how hard she stretches, no matter how fast her pirouettes are, she is never quite good enough. Her teacher is an old Russian man with a distaste for German girls. He shouts commands at her and throws his anger around the mirror-filled room. She spends every morning, noon, and night dancing or icing sore muscles or stretching and running to keep herself in shape. Running in Moscow isn’t like home. She passes too many towering figures. She doesn’t like the way Moscow feels beneath her feet. When she gets done running it’s back to training with the angry coach her uncle has hired. 

The angry man shouts and beats his old cane on the floor, imploring her to do moves again and again. Tens of thousands of her reflections spin over and over. It’s dizzying and dreadful, weighing heavily in on her soul. This goes on for days, for weeks even. She feels the steel edges of her emotions breaking down. Russian food is horrid on her stomach, the weather is colder, she does not like the KGB officers on every corner. 

She doesn’t like the one in the middle of the theatre right now either as she prances across the stage on the tips of her toes, curving an arm up with the music. She is back in an old routine, the heavy song of the piano rains over the stage. Gaby’s arms move with precision. She tosses a leg behind her and turns on the tips of her toes. She twirls with an accuracy not many can claim, landing still as the crescendo of music hits. Her knee buckles and she falls. 

Gaby’s hands smack down on the polished stage and she bows her head low, chin tucked down against her chest. The pianist stops playing and the whole theatre is quiet. The KGB straggler sits in the middle of all the chairs. Tall and smug, arms crossed with a uniform cap pulled over his head. Gaby ignores him to sit in the spotlight. Her legs tremble and she runs her hands over her calves, slowly massaging the muscles there with her small hands. She exhales heavily and down come the walls. The first tear runs down the curve of her cheek and she exhales heavily, shaking out the fear of it all before smacking her hands on the glossy floor of the stage.

“Again!” she shouts in her native language. German rolls so easily from her tongue that she doesn’t think twice about it as she stands up and runs the back of her hand under her eyes. The piano doesn’t start and Gaby stomps a slipper-covered foot on the stage, “Again!” 

She shouts it in Russian this time and the keys are struck heavily. Music picks back up and so does her dance. Her lone attendee shifts in his seat. When the music ends, he doesn’t applaud. He simply sits back with his hat pulled over his head. Gaby edges her toes to the end of the stage. Her pink slipper is stark and bright in contrast to the pitch black stage and she stares down in wonder at the reflection of herself in the surface. After a few minutes the lone attendee stands and leaves her alone with her sad little reflection. She shucks the slippers off and changes without bothering to undo her messy hair. Gaby yanks a jacket over her small form and leaves the concert hall for home. 

Moscow is big and bright. It’s also painted red. A deep dark red that she sees even when she closes her eyes on the stage. Uncle Rudi promised her a year in the Soviet Ballet and then she would make the Royal Theatre. Of course he had regulated everything. He told her over and over how she needed the experience of the Bolshoi. She would be a star on the Russian stage. Only she had to do things his way, had to follow his ruling. Her Uncle was slowly bleeding the life from her dream, rendering it to nothing more than a childish fantasy. Gaby pushes her way out of the hall and into the busy sidewalk. She crosses the road, pretending to not enjoy the crunch of melting snow beneath her feet. Lights are strung up across the streets, everything was bright and mystical around the theatre, advertising for the next show. 

Gaby stomach sinks as she walks through the crowd of people, all of them heading for the evening train. She wouldn’t make prima ballerina in time for the show and no one will notice her if she can’t be front and center. Her fingers tightens on the bag slung over her shoulder and she holds tight to it, moving around the corner for the train station. 

The ballerina is so lost in her thoughts she runs directly into the uniformed chest of a KGB officer. The man above her grunts and mutters something harsh in his mother tongue. Gaby sputters out an apology and backed up, quickly trying to disappear into the crowd before the train whistles loud overhead. 

\----

Orders are being given out in the conference room.

“I would like to volunteer for Berlin.” Illya moves a hand up, two fingers in the air as if signalling to his superiors that this idea is all his own. He sits tall and perfectly put together in the crisp clean room of headquarters. The Russian KGB holds its own sector in Moscow, filled with the best and brightest that Mother Russia has to offer. They are military men, ex-police officers, intelligence spies and so much more, dressed in the muted greens and blues of their uniforms, each one with different medals and stripes ranking them. 

“Denied,” an old man croaks out and Illya turns his hand over in his lap to squeeze his fingers together in a tight fist. The muscles in his forearm are pulled tight under his uniform but he manages to contain the red haze as his superior officer stands. Oleg’s face is turned down into an ever permanent frown. “Kuryakin, we have better things for you.”

The meeting ends and the agents file out slowly, leaving the tall blond man in the middle of the room. He’s sitting still other than his fingers tapping against his thigh, eyes moving about the room. Most of the superiors filter out but Oleg lingers behind. He reaches in his suit pocket for a package of cigarettes and pulls one free. His pale hand is coated in liver spots and he smells like a tobacco factory, but Illya keeps those thoughts to himself as Oleg lights the cancer stick. 

Illya clears his throat and Oleg inhales deeply before blowing out a plume of smoke. “Kuryakin,” He somewhat coughs out the man’s name with that harsh accent of his.

“Sir.” 

“I do not need to remind you how important the Soviet Union is, do I?” Oleg asks playing with the open end of his cigarette. 

“No, sir.” Illya nods, his uniform hat slipping down with the motion. He reaches up and gently nudges the had back in place with the back of his bruised knuckles. 

“You are perfect choice then.”

“Excuse me, but what for?” Illya’s confusion etches over his brow and he exhales softly trying to put together pieces that aren’t quite all there. 

Oleg flicks the edge of his cigarette and leans back into his chair, “We are being outsourced by a politician. Some good faith project,” Oleg waves his hand as if uncaring about the whole politics of it all. “They are sending the Soviet Ballet group and other performers to Paris.” 

“Paris?” Illya’s brow raises but he instantly closes his mouth when his handler shoots him a soft glare. 

“Yes, the French.” Oleg exhales another bit of smoke and goes on, “We do not want these girls and boys leaving the Union. As a Union we must remain strong. United.” Oleg forms a fist and slams it down on the small table. 

Illya sits there for a moment before slowly nodding, “I am to escort them? I am KGB, not babysitter.” 

“Consider it probation for your father.” 

Illya stiffens in his chair, his hands forming those uniformed fists once more before he shifts in his seat and clears his throat. “I believe I have done enough for my father’s crimes.” His blue eyes dart down to the watch on his wrist but Oleg’s laugh draws his attention away.

“Paris, you are to go to Paris with them. It is final. Do not divert from mission or I will strip you of your rank.” He stands now, trying to tower over Illya but failing. Even when sitting, Illya is part giant. His legs are impossibly long and he sits straight as an arrow. 

“Paris,” Illya repeats the word.

“Paris. Keep the ballet dancers from defecting out of the Union. You leave tomorrow.” 

Illya nods and stands quickly. He gives one final nod to Oleg and leaves the room, pulling at his uniform as he walks along the crowded halls of the building. Fellow agents nod to him, a few call his name, but others just whisper as he goes by. He knows what they say, the rumors of his father still float around. They will likely haunt him forever. 

The wind outside is bone chilling, slicing right through him as he bows out of the building, head down. He steps onto the sidewalk and slush covers his boots as he trudges in the remains of winter with his hands pushed into his pockets. 

\----

“Paris?” Gaby exhales the word with a dreamy sparkle in her eyes. She blinks a few times at her reflection and leans on the edge of her vanity, getting close to the mirror as she runs the kohl pencil under her eyes once more. 

“Paris!” Veronika practically melts against the back of Gaby’s chair. The redheaded woman is covered in a spattering of freckles and she’s practically coming apart at the seams with excitement. Veronika moves a hand out and tucks some of Gaby’s loose curls back into her bun. 

“But why us? Why now?” Gaby runs the eyeliner under her lashes and blinks a few more times, making sure they are thick enough with black lines. 

“Who knows!”

“Who cares!” Another girl pipes up and Gaby can’t stop the soft giggle that falls from her mouth at their excitement. 

In her short time in Moscow, she has barely made any friends. Most of the girls she sees as competition, all of them are gunning for the same spot. They are all moving to be the prima ballerina of the show but not Veronika. Veronika is only dancing because of her mother’s legacy, she doesn’t enjoy it. She does, however, enjoy the costumes and she even knows German, which makes Gaby feel a little more at ease around the young woman.

“All I know is that we are going to dance The Sleeping Beauty, one of us will get to be prima and we get to dance for Paris! Paris! Where all that fashion is,” Veronika sounds in love with the idea of being so close to French fashion. Her pale cheeks are flushed and she exhales softly with a hand over her chest. 

“Prima?” Gaby repeats and Veronika nods before squealing out another fashion-related dream before sweeping over to her vanity to finish her own makeup. 

“We leave tomorrow for this exchange program, the French Ballet are going to come here to perform on the Bolshoi stage.” 

Gaby knocks over half of the stage makeup on her vanity, “Tomorrow!” 

\----

They are going by train to Paris. Illya checks the map once again. It’s the fifth time in the last half hour he’s pulled out the map, drawing his eyes across the red line of the tracks they will take. It will take three days to go from Moscow to Paris and Illya is dreading every minute of it. The train station is already full of people, but now his cabin is full of giggling dancers. Girls are everywhere, pressing over him, passing by him and even through him it seems like. They are excited for Paris, chattering on and on with one another as they talk of seeing the sights. They’re going to the ‘City of Love’ and the idea of love makes them all flush and swoon. He scoffs and adjusts himself in his seat, crossing his long legs and focusing elsewhere. 

The Soviet Ballet group gets a whole traincar to themselves. There are multiple sleeper compartments with two beds a piece in each one. The girls have been paired up and Illya is to room with one of the girl’s uncle. The director has to sleep in the company of one of the instructors. Illya’s duffle bag is secure above his bunk and the map is in his hands along with a few notes. There are eight dancers joining them on the train. He has gone over the file countless times in the last few hours. Illya knows every detail given to him Each girl has a photo in his folder with a brief description on the back. He tucks the file under his notes. 

Illya scans the top of his map and makes a mental headcount. There are eight women all dressed in thick winter clothes hauling suitcases on board. Well, almost all of them are. One of them is enthusiastically waving a fashion magazine around and another is stretching her leg out until he worries that her joints will pop out of place. She is a small thing with sharp brown eyes that search the compartment with a sense of ferocity. Her gaze lands on him and he holds it for just a moment before glancing down at the notes.

The Sleeping Beauty is three acts, eight ballerinas, and a fantasy story of a young girl put under a spell, forced to sleep. Illya thumbs through his little book but before long the director of the whole production stands up in the middle of the slender walkway and makes an announcement that in three days they will arrive in Paris. He holds out a folded piece of paper and begins to read off the roles of the story just as the train whistles loudly. The engines below them roar to life and Illya settles back in his seat, watching as the girls hang on to every word that leaves the old man’s mouth.

The director is short with graying hair that is split right down the middle and wild looking. He has an air of superiority around him but Illya knows it's all an act as the man stands as tall as he can among the ballerinas. 

“And for the prize role of the Princess Aurora…” There’s a thick tension in the train cart as the silence lingers. Illya finds himself lowering the map just to watch as the director clears his throat to announce, “Gabriella Teller.” 

The small woman on the bench across from him sits up. Her back goes perfectly straight and she quits stretching long enough to find her voice, “W-What?” 

The director gives a sharp not, “Congratulations Miss Teller, don’t muck it up with your poor German steps.” 

The girl is the only German immigrant in the group. Illya studied her photo the night before while packing his bag. Her uncle is also on the trip. She had moved from East Berlin to Moscow a few months ago, had no prior criminal charges or brushes with the law. All in all she was particularly normal. He peered over the edge of the folder to the girl carefully. He watched as she stretched her legs back and stood among the girls as the instructor sauntered off. Gabriella watched him leave, brown eyes impossibly wide just as the train lurched forward onto the tracks. 

“Now girls, girls, take a seat.” The dance instructor, Sergei Ivanoff — Illya has a file on him too — stands in the small hall of the train and passed through the slender aisle way. 

A few girls move to their respective compartments but others lingered together. They whisper about their roles, some happy and others not so much. The one who landed the lead is still standing in disbelief. Her hand is crossed over her chest and she is playing with the silver pendent of her necklace, thumb worrying back and forth over it before she moves to sit across from him.

“You were not expecting part?” Illya can’t help himself. He draws the edge of his papers down and catches her gaze.

She has impossibly brown eyes. They are dark and endless with flecks of gold mixed in. He clears his throat and she blinks to him and then shakes her head softly. 

“No, no I was not.” She speaks better English than Russian. He listens to her low accent and she sits back almost blissfully in her seat before taking in his uniform. A frown pulls at her lips.

“Are you KGB?” 

He nods almost proudly, puffing out his chest a bit and pulling his folder down just far enough for her to see the medals on his chest. She frowns at his uniform and it doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Is this problem?” Illya’s English is rusty, but he manages just fine with her.

“No, no.” She shakes her head, “Just wondering what you did wrong to be the babysitter.” 

Illya stiffens in his seat and he scowls at her. “I am not babysitter.” 

“Could have fooled me.” She grins now at him, mocking him. He huffs at her and narrows his gaze. 

“Gabriella Teller, German born girl to scientists, no? Why did you not go to college. Why did you play dress up to dance?” Illya strikes hard with facts and she flushes now. He wonders if it’s from embarrassment or anger. Her fingers turn to a fist on her silver pendant and her nostrils flare a bit.

“Gaby,” she says quietly with anger clipping her tone. It’s a tone that strikes him hard, permeates the air around them. For someone so small she is commanding. 

“What?” Illya tilts his to the side a bit exposing the sharp line of his jaw. 

“My name is Gaby,” she repeats with her words, drawing them out with a slight hiss, “And I did go to college. I went to art school.” Illya scoffs and Gaby’s gaze narrows like a marksman who has found his target. “It’s not like I joined the military because I wasn’t smart enough for college.” She waves a hand at his uniform.

Illya’s anger shows in little subtle ways. The muscles in his jaw tick and his fingers tap the edge of his file in a slow rhythmic sort of way. He shifts in his seat, trying not to give away that she’s struck a chord with him. He splays his hands out over his knees for a moment. 

“I joined KGB for honor. It is great honor to serve my country. It is best job.” Illya leaves out that his father committed high crimes of embezzlement and how he needs to atone for those sins. He leaves out becoming their youngest agent, most proficient agent. 

Gaby laughs. Her head falls back against the seat of the train and she laughs letting go of her necklace. He sees now that it’s not just a pendant but a locket. Still, she’s laughing at him and his cheeks turn a shade of red. Her laughter fades away and she shakes her dark head up to him. 

“Trust me, my Russian friend.” She winks as she speaks to him, standing and leaning over him. She barely towers over him. If he was to stand, he would dwarf her in no time.

“Illya,” he tells her carefully in a low voice. “Illya Kuryakin.” 

She hums softly. “Well then Illya Kuryakin, you’re a professional babysitter.” 

He clamps his lips shut and surges to his feet. He is so tall that his head bumps the storage bin above him and causes Gaby to erupt into a fit of laughter. She leaves him in his compartment, laughing down the small hall to her own. A growl leaves his throat but she’s long gone by the time he sinks back into his seat, rubbing at his head. Her words sting long after they’ve left her lips. He’s a professional babysitter for an agency that does not see him as something worth value. 

\----

The first day of travel is rather boring. He triple checks each compartment before bed, ensuring all of the girls are in as the train rumbles on across the countryside. None of them speak of defecting, but they all gush of the sights and fashion of Paris, which makes him shake his head. Paris isn’t as great as Moscow in his mind. Those girls are silly and foolish to wish anything better than what they have been given. The sky outside of the windows has turned an inky dark color and they’re passing through the mountains now, giving him a glimpse of the peaceful countryside with no city lights to blot out the stars in the sky. Heading for his own compartment, he’s almost inside when he hears the faint click of a door. 

One of the girls has left her compartment and is moving about the car. Illya turns around in the dimly lit hallway and waits, watching as a small form shuffles about in oversized pajamas, yawning loudly. The little dark figure heads right his way and he ducks inside his compartment for a moment just in time to see the prima ballerina shuffling by. She heads for the main part of the car where there are seats and snacks to pick at. Illya opens his door and slips back into the hall, following in her steps. His own steps are soft and quiet unlike her heavy shuffles. He lingers back a few steps as Gaby pokes around the car, finding the dining cart. A few clinking noises echo in the dark of the car and then he hears her sigh happily before his fingers find the switch on the wall.

He flips it on and she freezes mid-motion. Gaby’s standing in the middle of the car with a clear bottle halfway to her lips in oversized blue sleepwear and messy hair. Her makeup is smudged and her lips are open but she doesn’t move a muscle just yet, knowing she’s caught. Illya leans against the edge of the wall. He easily blocks the doorway with his massive size, staring at her with a raised eyebrow.

Gaby takes a swig of the vodka in her hand. 

“Would you like bigger glass?” he asks, teasing her slightly. He tries not to let his eyes wander down from her sleepy face. He doesn’t want to divert his attention from the mission.

“Nope.” Gaby makes sure she enunciates her English well enough before taking another swig, this one more like a gulp. She nearly drains the whole bottle before he crosses the space to get to her. Illya wraps his fingers around the bottle but she sucks down another inch of it before he manages to wrench it free from her grip. Gaby pouts, “I thought you were just the babysitter. Not the fun police.” 

Illya scoffs, “KGB better than police. Not the fun police though.” He shakes his head and waves the bottle at her, “This is not good for you. Not good for the prima ballerina.” 

Gaby laughs, “And what do you know of ballerinas? Hm? Maybe it’s good for this ballerina?” 

He smiles faintly at her laugh and the memory of his mother leaning over the kitchen table with the radio on in the background, begging his father to take her to the ballet again. His mother would dance around the table, talk of her days in the arts before meeting the man of her dreams. She never complained of becoming a homemaker, but Illya often wondered how much she missed the stage. Right before she died she had asked him to turn on the radio. It was all so she could hear the symphony one more time. It was the last memory he had of his mother that wasn’t tainted by the shame of his selfish father.

Gaby scoffs at him and breaks the hazy memory of his home before it was torn apart, “Exactly, you know nothing of ballerinas.” 

Gaby doesn’t add that he knows nothing of her, nothing of her uncle’s incessant pushing and prying. Or how his fingers sink into her shoulders show after show, preening on and on about how she’ll be his star. It makes her stomach churn, her love of the dance is dissipating. 

He shakes his golden head to her and sighs, pulling the bottle up to his own lips. He swallows down the last little bit she has left behind. “I know plenty. I know that if you had drank all of this, you would dance no more.” 

“That’s not true!” Gaby exclaims and Illya shushes her, not wanting to wake up the entire private car. The train rumbles on under them, darkness swallows up most of the car as they go through a tunnel carved out in the mountainside. Gaby takes a few steps back from him and moves her hands up for a moment. Her eyes close and Illya watches her for a moment as she rises up on the tips of her toes and then moves. She moves with a quick and seamless motion that is practically magic. Her motions are fluid and, even though she’s wearing baggy pajamas, he can how beautifully she moves. 

“See?” She breathes carefully. Gaby moves an arm over her head and then does a small turn. It’s beautiful and precise. 

“This is why you are Princess in dance, no?” 

Gaby smiles warmly and nods before turning once more and shifting her balance, dipping her toes down for just a moment. She dances beautifully in a dark train car.

She moves just as beautifully on stage. 

He’s seen her before, practicing in the concert hall not far from his flat in the city. The concert hall was part of a community center his mother had helped create before her death. She had helped run it, too, before his father’s crimes had damaged their family. Before she had become such good friends with his father’s comrades. She had played piano and taught dance. When he had been walking past that day, he had heard the piano playing and ducked inside. Gaby had been on the stage. She had been dancing to the saddest song he’s ever heard and he had watched the tear tracks over the curve of her face. He had taken a seat in the center of the theatre and watched until she fell. A soft sigh draws him free from his thoughts. 

Gaby is perfectly poised on the tips of her toes with her muscles straining tight against the skin. 

The vodka in her system must be wearing her down because her flushed cheeks are puffed out slightly and he watches as her muscles tremble for a moment. Thinking quickly, Illya surges forward, hands catching onto her middle as her knees give way. She collapses into his chest with a sharp laugh. Her sudden weight knocks him off balance. She pushes harder into him and he hits the floor. She climbs over him, her knees planted on either side of his chest. She leans over him with her fingers playing with the edges of his sleep shirt. She curls her fingers in and plays with the softness of the sweater before leaning in.

“Wow.” It’s a soft exclamation from her lips as her palms curl into his sweater. The tip of her nose brushes his and a warm shock of electricity runs through his veins. Her hair brushes his cheeks and her eyes catch his before dragging down to the scar at his eye and then down his rough cheek where the morning stubble hadn’t been shaved away. Her gaze slips to his lips and she lowers there. The heat of her is soaking into his sweater and he feels his chest tighten as she leans in.

Her mouth misses his and she sinks into his shoulder with a soft snore. Confusion strikes him hard, and he lays there for a moment with his hands sliding along the small curves of her waist. A soft exhale leaves him and she snores again. Closing his eyes he manages to get up without waking her. He cradles her carefully to his chest and moves along the car, counting the compartments before finding the one with the empty bed. Thankfully the redheaded girl in the compartment is snoring loudly with a sleeping mask pulled over her eyes. Illya kneels carefully and deposits the little ballerina in the makeshift bed before pulling the blanket over her. Gaby’s hand slips along his and she clings to him for a moment, fingers searching his. He hangs back, looming over her for just a moment longer. He lets his gaze trace the side of her pretty face before he pulls out of her grip and walks out. 

He goes back to his own compartment where Gaby’s Uncle is his roommate. Her Uncle Rudi is snoring loudly and Illya rolls his eyes before turning his back on the snoring man. When he closes his eyes he sees Gaby. He sees her dancing, he sees her on the stage – dead center, and best of all he sees her smiling. He drifts asleep with the music of Sleeping Beauty playing in his dreams.

\----

 

The sun filters into her compartment and Gaby groans. Her insides churn and she rolls onto her back before turning her back to the window. Her soft groan does not go unnoticed. Veronika is wide awake, flipping a page in a new fashion magazine. Where she keeps getting the magazines from, Gaby isn’t quite certain. She simply rolls back over and tries to bury her face into the thin pillow of the bunk. Her back aches from the stiff bed but she does not complain because it is better than any bed she had behind the wall.

“Long night?” Veronika grins over the edge of the glossy pages and Gaby scoffs into her pillow before laughing softly, as the visions of the night before come flooding back to her.

“Not long enough,” she answers with a cheeky grin pulling at her lips and then she rolls out of the small uncomfortable bed. Gaby sways for a moment, muscles tired and dehydration settling in. The engines of the train are vibrating full of life beneath her feet, dragging them across the continent from behind the Iron Curtain to the ‘City of Love’. She finds she likes the soft hum of the train, of the diesel engines rolling under her feet. It feels so much different from standing on a stage that she flexes her bare feet against the floor before slipping into her shoes.

The two girls are up and dressed in time to catch the tail end of breakfast. Gaby’s Uncle Rudi is already present and forcing Gaby to eat extra carbs to maintain energy to be the prima ballerina. Her Uncle sits between her and the KGB Agent who is just a fancy babysitter to make sure they don’t defect to the free countries. Or so her Uncle tells her as she digs her fork into a hardboiled egg for the morning with a sour look over her face as he yanks the sunglasses off of her face. 

“Uncle Rudi,” Gaby chastises as he insults the Russian man next to him. “That’s not very nice. Illya is quite nice. Babysitter or not.” She adds, catching Illya’s faint smile at her words as he pulls his coffee mug up to his lips and swallows down a generous amount.

“I do not have to be nice. Good German genetics got you that lead. Not the Russian ones around here.” Her uncle sits proudly and Gaby tries to ignore the sour looks that are passed around at them. Especially the one that settles on the man next to her uncle. Gaby wants to lean around her uncle and apologize to the others, to Illya, but doesn’t. Instead she focuses intently on her breakfast and pokes at her egg until everything goes cold and they come to clear it away. 

The girls practice in the hallways and compartments. There’s not a whole lot of room on the train but there is enough for stretching and basic moves. Veronika holds Gaby’s foot as she stretches in the compartment. Gaby slings an arm over her head and reaches for her ankle. She’s lost in her thoughts before a shadow passes her window and she glances up to see the retreating figure of their KGB escort. Gaby exhales and glances to Veronika for a moment who is not paying one bit attention to the window, but too busy picking at the paint on her nails as she holds Gaby’s foot. 

“Do you think I got the lead because I’m good? Or because I’m German?” 

Veronika scoffs, “Because you are talented. They all hate you.” She waves a hand and Gaby flushes.

“Hate me?” Gaby begins to wonder if it’s her they hate or her uncle and his constant support. 

“Not entirely. I think everyone is jealous of you. You are so talented Gaby.” Veronika’s voice is almost dreamy but she waves a hand to the brunette and sniffs softly, “Everyone is jealous except me. I don’t want to dance. I want to design. I want to wear all the latest runway designs and even be in a magazine. Oh what if I get to dress Audrey Hepburn herself?” 

“You could you know.” Gaby adds softly, “You’re beautiful and have great taste. Any of those high and mighties would want you to dress them. Even the Americans. I hope you know that after all.” 

Veronika laughs now and gestures her fingers towards Gaby’s other leg to switch up the stretch, “Oh I do know this. I dress you after all.” The girls switch up and stretch until their muscles are warm and loose. There isn’t much else to do on the car. The instructor goes up and down the aisle informing everyone 

Gaby doesn’t get to see Illya for the rest of the day. When she does see him it is only in passing. He has a small leather-bound novel in his hands, . He doesn’t look up when she goes by, The man simply turns a page and continues reading on. Their little rendezvous the night before is all she has to linger on as her uncle collects her for the evening and they head to the dining car alone to eat amongst the other guests of the train. She has a feeling the director has told her uncle to not eat among the other ballerinas for fear of upsetting them with his anti-Russian talk. Her uncle eats hearty and Gaby picks at greens, listening to her stomach rumble as she props her head up on a closed fist. Her brown eyes catch the window and she watches the world go by with such speed it’s mesmerizing. 

\----

Illya writes a detailed report of the first day. He leaves out the vodka-filled night with the prima ballerina pressed into his chest. He leaves out the details of how warm she felt against him and the way he felt when he saw her dance. Instead he stays clinical like a good soldier would. He folds the first report and slips it into a folder to be taken to the first post stop they hit.

It isn’t until the train is in total darkness that he hears the soft sound of the compartment door opening and closing. He already knows who it is by the sound of the feet creeping past his door. A faint smile pulls at his lips as he lays in the small bunk, arms folded behind his head. He listens for a minute longer over the low thrumming of the engines. The sound of the bar cart being played with has him out of the bed. He rolls over the edge of the bunk and pads out of the compartment, leaving behind a snoring Uncle Rudi. Gaby’s uncle sleeps like the dead. He is an arrogant old man who lets his German genes be known to anyone and everyone. Illya closes the door gently and moves along the private car of the train.

The faint light in the car draws him in closer and he feels like a moth drawn to the light as he comes into see her sitting on the floor. Gaby’s back in those blue pajamas that are too big for her slender frame. There is a deep frown on her lips and Illya smirks as she pulls at the liquor cart once more. Her fingers tug on the lock and Illya leans in the doorway again.

“I knew you would be back. I took precautions.” 

She jumps at the sudden interaction and swivels in place to look at him. Her bangs are fluffy and obscuring her vision. She exhales softly with her lips twisting down into a pout, “You…” 

Gaby growls out the word and turns her head up towards him. Illya grins, proud of himself for thinking of the lock as he pushes away from the door and moves towards her. His steps are slow and measured, deliberately drawing out the distance between her. He stops in front of her and she holds both hands up, fingers flexing up towards his. He watches her for a moment, looking over her hands like this is an intricate web and she is a devious spider waiting to take a bite. When she lets off an impatient noise he takes her hands and moves to haul her up to her feet but Gaby stops him. She tugs down on him gently. 

“Join me,” she hums softly and Illya shakes his head.

“We do not need to sit on the floor.” 

She sniffs, “This is much more comfortable, I promise.” 

Another tug on his fingertips and he finds himself kneeling down on the hard floor of the train car. He folds his long legs in and sits across from her. Gaby doesn’t let go of his fingertips. Instead she traces the outlining edges of them. The pads of her fingers are soft in comparison to his own which are heavily calloused from years of hard labor. He has a scar on the inside of his palm from a training incident gone wrong and a burn across the curve of his wrist from shooting his first handgun. Gaby traces the edge of his wrist then turns his hand over, thumb stroking over his knuckles.

“What are you doing?” he asks finally as her fingers move over the back of his hands to the line of his wrist. Her fingers stop just short of his father’s watch, making him swallow hard. Gaby turns her head up and sends him a bright wry smile. 

“Hands say a lot about a man.” Her accent makes her voice sound husky, lips pouting as she runs her hands back down over his palm.

“What do mine say?” he asks raising both eyebrows up to her just as she picks his right hand up and holds it to her ear. Pieces of her soft hair fall against his palm as she holds his palm close to her ear. He resists the urge to close his fingers and press his palm against her cheek to see her smile up close and personal. 

“Well my Russian friend.” She hums softly, shaking his hand as if it’s going to tell all his secrets to her. He watches her with a sort of amused look in his eyes, lips twitching resisting the urge to smile at her. 

Gaby’s hand closes around his father’s watch, her fingers smudge the glass faceplate but he doesn’t care as he watches her turn her cheek over to his palm looking up at him with those impossibly dark eyes. “This hand tells me you’re no fun. All these callouses say you just work, work, work.” 

He rolls his eyes at her antics and pulls his hand away from her grip. “Not everyone can go to school for art or dancing,” he informs her with a soft nod of his head and she frowns a bit at his words, “Some of us must work for the country. For respect to be earned.”

“I was just saying you should relax a bit. Not everything has to be work. You don’t have to babysit me either. You could open this cart and we could dance all by ourselves.” Gaby tosses him a wink and he scoffs, shaking his head.

Her hand reaches back up and captures his wrist. She toys with the band of his watch and he moves his free hand over and covers her hand on the watch. The faint ticking of his watch keeps steady with his heart as he shakes his head gently to her. 

“That is not yours,” he says it in a whisper to her. 

“Would you tell me about it then?”

“Who says it has story Little One?” He smiles softly as her fingers curl under his hand. She is warm against his skin and he relishes in the feel of it soaking into his skin. 

Gaby edges closer to him. Her knees are almost touching his own as they move. “Because if it didn’t you wouldn’t be so worried about it.” 

“You are smart.” He hums and her lips curve like that of the Cheshire Cat.

“Not bad for school of the arts.” She says it with a soft sing-song like tone and his mouth ticks up like he’s going to smile but he manages to hold himself back.

Instead he shakes his head. “This is my father’s watch.” He points at the face where her fingerprint is still smudged on the glass, “Is all I have left of him.” 

Gaby’s lips part and her finger hooks into the leather band and she pulls on it gently. He leans into the pulling for a moment as she inspects the watch. “What happened to him?” Her brows knit together and she isn’t looking at him which means he can hide the frown that settles over his lips.

“Nothing, he is criminal.” Illya cuts off the conversation and pulls his hand away from her grip. Her finger slips out of the band of his watch and falls back into her lap. She frowns for a moment against his words and slouches down for a moment. 

“Oh,” she breathes the word out softly before adding, “Mine is not much better, but then again you’ve met my uncle.” 

“Your uncle snores like train engine.” 

This makes the frown dissipate and her dark head falls back. “He does, doesn’t he?” She manages to say between laughs and he cracks a smile finally pulling his sleeve down over his watch to end that part of their conversation. 

“He is very proud man, too, for such a short man. Someone should tell him he should watch his words.” 

“Are you threatening my uncle?” Gaby’s laugh stops but her smile is still there. Her words are playful and she doesn’t seem to mind him making such a threat towards her family. Or maybe it’s just her uncle she doesn’t mind being threatened. He notices the way she sinks in when her uncle speaks, the way she frowns when he brags about her.

“I could be, what would you do about it?” he asks, toeing the line now with his voice low and accent hanging on his words. There’s no alcohol in her system tonight and she’s smiling up at him with a bright smile, dark eyes sparkling. Gaby’s nose is mere centimeters from his own. She smells like warm vanilla and something sharp and clean and metallic. It’s intoxicating and her lips look inviting and, while he’s kissed plenty of women, none of them have been small infuriating ballerinas. He drags his tongue over his bottom lip and she edges up on to her knees.

“I could teach you a lesson,” she informs him with that cat-like smile curving at her lips once more. 

Illya lets out a breathy laugh. “Don’t make me put you over my knee.” 

Color rises along the tops of her cheeks, “I would like to see you try. My uncle is a very proud German man.” 

This stops Illya. Gaby is a German Ballerina. She is not Russian. She is not a good woman to bring home to his family. The other agents would disapprove, it would just bring on another shade of shame. He frowns suddenly, breaking the spell between them. He turns his head away from the dreamy looks slipping over her face and he catches his reflection in one of the dark windows of the car. He and Gaby are too close. She leans a little closer and he pulls back putting a hand on her shoulder gently, “I think…”

“You think?” Gaby asks softly interrupting his thoughts for a moment. He drags his gaze back from the window and looks to her. 

“This is bad idea, you should get to bed.” He leans back from her and stands, reaching down. She moves her hand into his and he grasps hold of her palm, pulling her up to her feet. Gaby barely reaches his shoulder in her bare feet. She cranes her head back to look at him, exposing a long line of throat. Illya looks away from her and lets go of her hand as if she has burned him. He takes a step back and bows his head gently towards her. “Goodnight Gaby.” 

She watches him step back and then frowns as he leaves her alone in the private car. She shifts her weight foot to foot and sighs softly wrapping her arms around her middle, playing with the baggy fabric of her pajama shirt. 

\----

It takes three days to get to Paris. The first two days are a learning experience, but by day three he is settling into the vibration of the train. His joints rattle and roll, his eyes adjust to rays of light that filter in and out of the passing windows. He turns another page in his book and instead of focusing on the words, he watches the small woman approach his compartment. She passes through a cut of the raw sunlight and stops his heart. 

She glances over, catches his eye, and smiles. Something in his chest squeezes and his grip on the novel tightens. He forgets his place, fingers curling in the pages as her hand raises. Her fingers wave to him as she goes by, leaving him with a pounding heart. 

The train enters another tunnel, plunging him in darkness. Illya catches his reflection in the glass across from him and reminds himself that he’s on the job just before the tunnel ends and sunlight pours in once more. He fills another report, intentionally leaving out Gabriella Teller. 

\----

 

They arrive in Paris all together and trade the train for a luxurious hotel that is across the street from the major concert hall. The girls are paired up once more in shared rooms and all of the alcohol cabinets have been locked thanks to the golden haired KGB agent who thinks he’s not the police of all things fun. Gaby hasn’t spoken to Illya since their second night on the train. She keeps seeing him every time she turns around. He’s constantly on the outskirts of her peripheral vision, stepping in and out of her line of sight.

She doesn’t get to talk to him, though. They don’t even get a wave in before the director of the show is ushering the girls to do a costume change in their rooms and to be on stage in the next twenty minutes.

Practice begins within the hour. 

The director and instructor are tormentors in the arts. Gaby dances until sweat soaks her leotard. The nylon fabric sticks to her skin. They dance until their muscles are liquid like and on fire. Gaby’s knees are barely able to hold her up by the time the director orders her to spin faster on the last pas de action. 

She does another pirouette just as the music finishes. The director claps and the instructor announces a break. Most of the girls collapse on the spot. Some are able to shuffle back off of the polished stage and Gaby manages to slip forward towards the small stairs where her uncle stands. Her uncle hands her a cool glass of water and Gaby swallows down most of it before catching the last bit of her uncle’s words.

“What did you say?” she asks softly, reaching up and running the back of her hand over her lips. 

Her uncle beams once more, “I said you looked perfect up there. The Bolshoi is in your future.” 

Gaby sinks down onto her feet, slippers falling flat, “Oh, oh thank you.” 

He clamps his hands on her shoulders. “Only the best for my Gabriella.” He coos out the words and shakes her softly before letting go of her to talk to the director. Gaby glances behind her uncle to the KGB agent sitting in the empty audience chairs. His arms are crossed and she can see the similar build and posture to the attendee she had in Moscow.

Realization strikes her hard and she drops the glass. It clunks to the floor, spilling over the rest of the steps as she marches over to him. Her pale pink leotard is soaked, sweat sliding down the column of her throat. She looks a mess but doesn’t mind it one bit as she weaves between the chairs. Her hands fold over the back of the one in front of him and she kneels on the plush velvet seat of the theatre. “Do you watch the practices? All of them?” 

Illya stiffens for a moment in the chair. He looks torn between running and staying put. Eventually he nods his head, “Some days. When I have spare time. I go to theatre and watch.” 

“So you’ve seen me dance before?” Gaby asks curiously, tilting her head to the side. Her bun is coming undone. Little wisps of hairs are sticking to her temples and Illya reaches up like he’s going to push them away but stops himself. 

“I believe so.” He nods. “I did not know it was you at the time. I have seen others, too.” 

“Why?” Gaby asks and her voice is hard. He shifts up in his seat and stares at her with those intense blue eyes.

Anger seeps into his voice as his jaw clenches tight, muscle ticking. “I like to remember the things my mother loved before my father took them away with his selfish lies.” 

The director calls attention, but Gaby doesn’t move. She stares at Illya still, wide-eyed and face softening like she’s about to apologize to him for something she doesn’t even know. Her lips part and he stands up just as the director calls her name. Illya looks down at her and then leaves his row, slipping out of the theatre as Gaby turns to face the stage. Practice begins again. 

\----

“Cut my legs off and let me bleed out,” Veronika whines as Gaby wraps a thick bandage around the redhead’s knee. An ice pack is wrapped around both of Gaby’s ankles. Her insides are sore and on fire. They practiced until the sun swapped places with the moon. Gaby’s legs throbbed, her arms were sore, and her head was pounding. 

“I would help but my arms are like lead.” Gaby sighs, falling in on her bed. She rolls onto her side with her face mashed into the plush pillow. Her eyes fluttered shut and exhaustion washed over her bones. She had spent the rest of practice learning the steps for the Princess, taking the smallest steps and longest leaps. Her joints ached from it all and her thoughts could barely concentrate on the show. Illya had invaded them. She couldn’t linger on Aurora and the spindle with the curse, because she was too busy trying to unravel the mystery of the KGB agent. 

Illya with his bright blue eyes and little scar on his temple, tall and brooding with his tiny novel and even smaller smiles. He was a mystery that intrigued her. When he had pulled her up to her feet she had felt the electricity spark across her nerves. She had wanted to lean in and kiss him and now, tangled up in the sheets of her expensive bed, she is kicking herself for not doing it. She squeezes her eyes shut just before Veronika’s soft snore fills the room. 

Sleep has just started to pull at Gaby when a soft knock came to the door. She hums and rolls off of the bed. Every step to the door is excruciating, but she shuffles along, wrenching the door open just to see her uncle there. Her heart sinks Gaby had been half-expecting to see Illya there with a reason for his abrupt outburst in the theatre. 

“Ah, Gabriella, please get dressed. I am taking you out tonight to see the city.” Her uncle pushes into her room and moves his way to the main sitting room. He moves right to her couch and makes himself at home, taking a handful of the mixed nuts that sit in a crystalline bowl on the coffee table. She lets him carry on, talking between handfuls of nuts about how she would get into the Bolshoi after taking the stage in Paris then from there become a star, his star. Gaby tries not to linger on how he possessively used the term of endearment for her, as if she doesn’t know he would skim the money from her earnings received on the stage. 

She changes in the bathroom, undoing her hair and running her fingers through the little makeshift curls. She changes into a small green and white sundress before moving her way into the hotel room where her uncle had managed to get the lock off of the liquor cabinet, helping himself to a tumbler full of amber liquid. He knocks back the drink and smiles at her. “Ah, my Gabriella, you look stunning.” 

Gaby smiles., “Thank you, uncle. Now, shall we go to the city?” she asked holding out her hand. Her uncle moves around to the side of her, setting his glass down and sliding her arm under the bend of his elbow. 

“Yes, let’s go. Unfortunately though we will have company. That KGB Agent for this trip insists on being a chaperone, as if I am going to let you be turned over to the French.” Her uncle lets out a sharp laugh as they leave the hotel room. “To leave the Soviets would be a mistake. Everyone knows the Americans are going to lose this Cold War with their capitalistic ideals. You’ll see my dear. You will see.” Rudi goes on to talk politics while Gaby lingers in on his words.

Illya would be joining them. He said Illya would be joining them. The thought makes her heart skip a beat. She shifts uncomfortably in the lift of the hotel as they descend to the lobby. Everything in the hotel is golden and plush, red velvet and ornate. The golden doors of the elevator open and there stands the Agent of her thoughts, tall in a dark suit. No KGB uniform, just a dark suit with his golden hair perfectly combed back. 

He smiles and Gaby feels her throat constrict as she turns her head up. “Illya,” she breathed out his name and ran her eyes from the crown of his head down to the shining toes of his shoes. “You clean up quite nice.” 

“I have more than just uniform,” he responded and her Uncle scoffs.

“It’s just a poor man’s suit, Gabriella, come on now. We have much to see on such a short time.” Her uncle sweeps past a frowning Illya and Gaby pauses for a moment as if to counteract her uncle’s words but he pulled her away and Illya lingered back a few steps before following. 

\---

Illya spends most of the night lingering behind Gaby and her uncle. Her uncle takes her out to eat and indulges her with delicious food that she will never get once she goes back behind the Curtain. He even takes her shopping where he tries to get her into a dark frock that doesn’t suit her at all. 

Illya picks out a small orange and white sundress, slipping it into her pile of clothes to try on with a slight smile tugging on his lips. Gaby tries on at least thirty dresses. Each one less flattering than the next. She plays with different bits of jewelry and shoes before going back to more dresses. The pile seems endless before she comes back out into the boutique only holding one dress. 

She buys the orange and white dress with a pair of obnoxiously oversized white sunglasses just because Illya told her not to. Her uncle drinks too much at the dinner, going on and on about how the French put too much salt in their food, nothing compares to his own. Illya helps Gaby order while her uncle signals for another two fingers of whiskey. His hand smooths over hers on the paper edge of the menu, sliding his index finger under the line of the meal.

“How many languages do you know?” Gaby asks as she folds her menu over and props an elbow up on the table. 

“Several,” Illya answers and he cuts his gaze to her uncle who is staring between the two of them before taking a short sip of his drink.

“I imagine you must know all these languages in order to make arrests. Tell me officer Kuryakin, do you make it a habit of chaperoning young ballerinas on cultural trips?” Rudi pulls no punches with Illya and Gaby watches as the man’s fingers curl into fists and then he hides them under the table before nodding to him, his mouth twitching into a forced smile.

“It is fine.” He looks to Gaby then looks to her uncle. “This mission was given to me. It is good experience in field to travel with such talent.”

When he says talent, he looks to Gaby who sits up a little more.

“Talent, yes, my Gabriella is going to be a world star on the stage. She has more talent in those legs than most of those Russian girls have in their whole bodies.” 

Illya turns his head back to Rudi and scowls for a moment. “Russian ballerinas are very talented.” 

“Yes, but nowhere near as talented as my Gaby.” Rudi smirks as their food comes and is laid out beautifully in front of them. Illya doesn’t argue anymore with her uncle. It’s pointless to argue with a man with so little knowledge of the world. Gaby keeps her eyes down on her plate where she chases a piece of buttery fish with the prongs of her fork. Illya’s gaze moves along the resturant. It’s a habit of his to scan every room, to soak in as much detail as possible before looking back at his own food. 

“How long have you been in the service?” Gaby asks, clearing her throat as she reaches for the glass of wine. Her uncle slips her glass away and pushes the water closer to her, reminding her that alcohol has empty calories.

“Since I was fifteen,” Illya answers. “I tried younger, KGB simply trains. I did not go into service until later.” He is abrupt with his past, shaking his head gently. “Is good job to serve country and now I get to see more than just Russia.”

“Well, I think that’s nice, don’t you, Uncle?” Gaby asks and her uncle goes back to his drink ignoring the comment all together. Gaby reaches over and her fingers cover the back of Illya’s hand for a moment. She squeezes his palm and then lets her fingers slip away. The touch is warm and brief, leaving an impression on his skin. 

The rest of dinner goes by in a strange silence. Gaby’s uncle continues drinking and going on and on before announcing he will retire to the hotel for the evening. He leaves Gaby in the KGB chaperone’s care before taking himself and Gaby’s shopping bags in a cab. She kisses his pink cheeks goodbye just before the cab takes off. Gaby stands on the edge of the sidewalk in her expensive shoes with her arms wrapping around her middle. 

“What would you like to do?” Illya asks, standing behind her, turning his head left to right as if soaking in all the tourists milling about. 

“Could we see the Eiffel Tower?” 

Illya shakes his head. “We could but you do not want that.” 

Gaby turns to face him, nose wrinkling as she cranes her head upwards. He smiles at her expression and shakes his head once more. “Everyone knows what it looks like. Instead we go this way.” He holds his hand out and she tucks her fingers into the bend of his elbow. Together they leave the edge of the sidewalk and walk down through the winding sidewalks of downtown Paris. 

“Tell me about your Sleeping Princess,” Illya asks as Gaby’s hands grip at his sleeve as they move around the crowds of people. Gaby watches the people slip past past them. No one in Paris seems to notice them as they walk together. Illya slows his steps so Gaby can keep up with him.

“Aurora” Gaby corrects him, “Not the Sleeping Princess. Sleeping Beauty.”

“Excuse me, this Sleeping Beauty. Which is you, yes?” 

“Yes, I am Sleeping Beauty.” Gaby nods as they walk past a street of open shops and boutiques. The smell of perfume and fresh flowers permeates the air as they pass by, mixing in with the scents of fresh pastries and bread. Gaby pauses by the window of the bakery and hums softly with her fingers slipping out of his grip and moving towards the window of the bakery, “Mm…” 

“Would you like treat?” 

Gaby presses both hands to the warm window and her nose is close, Illya smiles softly watching her lean into the window. Her lips part and he watches her tongue poke out against her bottom lip before shaking her head, “My uncle would never.”

“Your uncle does not have to know.” 

“Illya,” Gaby squeaks out his name as he hooks his hand under her upper arm and hauls her gently into the bakery. The smell of freshly baked bread is strong, powdered sugar and flour is everywhere. There’s a dusting of white everywhere and Illya hauls her right to the woman behind the counter. 

“We will take a dozen of the sweets.” He points at the petit fours along the case with their thick amounts of sugar and jam fillings. Gaby gapes up at him as he pulls a handful of francs to pass to the woman. 

“That’s too much!” Gaby’s lips split into a smile and a soft laugh leaves her lips as the woman behind the counter shakes her head.

“Not at all, your husband has good taste.” The woman’s english is good, heavy with that french accent and she sends Illya a wink which makes Gaby flush a dark shade of red.

“My, my husband?” Gaby shakes her head, “No, no. He is my…” She trails off looking up to Illya as the woman passes him the box of treats all tied up with a pale pink ribbon.

“Come along, dear,” Illya teases her and hooks the box under his arm.

The two of them find a bench close to the Arc de Triumph where Gaby folds her legs up on the bench and takes a bite out of one of the treats. Sugar dusts her lips and her eyes are on the architecture before them as they sit in silence. The box of bakery goods is open between them. Illya eats two, Gaby eats six. She gushes about the rush of sugar, enjoying the taste of the freedom she doesn’t often get as her uncle and directors and teachers tell her that a light ballerina is all they want on the stage, but mostly her uncle. Uncle Rudi does not allow sweets or fried foods. He only allows water and greens, he insists the lighter she is the more desirable she’ll be on the stage as a prima ballerina.

“Thank you,” Gaby breaks the silence between them and Illya turns his head down to hers.

“It was nothing,” His lips tick up into a slight smile and she grins at him. There’s a smear of raspberry jam on her bottom lip and he reaches over. The edge of his calloused thumb touches down against her skin and then swipes it away easily. Gaby watches him carefully and as he starts to pull away his hand she reaches up and catches his fingers.

“Tell me about your father, please.” 

A moment of silence passes, but he nods and starts the story. His past takes them into deeper conversation, where she learns his father embezzled money from the Russian government while funds were short as it was. The police showed up and took his father away, leaving his mother to make ends meet. She tried to keep her eyes down as he spoke of his father’s friends, then even more when he mentioned his mother enjoyed the ballet. The way he spoke of his mother had her putting the pieces slowly together. His life is broken and bare. The KGB take advantage of him and the last memories he has of a happy family. 

By the end of his story, she feels her insides are cold and hollow. He is a good soldier in a bad situation. He has no choice in missions when they send him out. Following around a bunch of ballerinas isn’t exactly what she would call enjoyable. 

“What is so great about your country if they take advantage of you?” Gaby asks reaching up with a napkin to wipe the rest of the powder sugar off of her lips. 

“Sometimes we do things because of what others come to expect,” he says softly with that little frown pulling at his lips. Gaby turns her head over and watches him for a moment. She traces his outline against the night sky and decides the Arc is not worth looking at, but Illya is. 

\----

They get back to the hotel in the middle of the night. It’s late and people are staring but Gaby pulls Illya with her into her room. Veronika is already asleep, the door to the bedroom is closed leaving them the common space. He puts the box of sweets down on the table and Gaby punches the radio on. The music is soft and slow when she takes his hand. He hesitates but she pulls gently, placing his hand on her waist. Her hand covers his and she turns her head up to his, smiling softly. He matches her smile and they dance. They dance until Gaby’s head is tilted back and he is leaning forward, their breaths mingling. He finds himself tracing the line of her lips as just as a yawn pulls at them. Illya tells her to sleep. She wraps her arms around his waist and lets her forehead rest on the center of his chest for a moment. She presses her cheek against his dress shirt then wishes him goodnight.

Gaby peels herself off of him and slips out of her shoes, letting Illya excuse himself from the room. He bids her goodnight and closes the door to her hotel room, where he finds himself pressing against the door. His thoughts are buzzing and his nerves are on fire. He can still feel her warm cheek pressed over his shirt and his hand lingers there, palm spreading over the fabric of his shirt. 

He’s so lost in his thoughts he misses the sound of the door closing across from him. It isn’t until Rudi’s throat clears that he glances up and see the man glaring at him. Illya straightens his posture, drops his hands and stands tall. 

“You.” He looks at the room door behind Illya and scowls, “You are to stay away from Gabriella.” 

Illya raises both brows. “And if I do no such thing?” 

Gaby’s uncle narrows his gaze and he steps forward to drive his point home, index finger pointed heavily at the man. “Then I will be making some calls to your superior officers and see if we can’t have you removed. Honestly, what kind of KGB agent gets to be a babysitter for such young women? Must make you their whipping boy. I can imagine they would not appreciate the call.”

Illya’s world goes still and silent. Anger pulses along his nerves and his heart beat picks up. He flexes his fingers, they’re shaking. Then he curls his fingers into fists, blue eyes mapping along Rudi’s body, searching out the weak points. Illya’s insides are boiling as he grounds out the words, “All so you can use your niece for money?” 

“Stay away from my Gabriella, you Russian brute.” And with that, Illya is left standing in the hallway as her Uncle Rudi locks him out of the hotel room, leaving him in a haze of red. He is angry and foolish because his first thought is to knock on Gaby’s door to tell her of her horrible uncle. He doesn’t, though. Instead he leaves to retreat to the lobby to order an extra room for the evening. 

\----

The first act of Sleeping Beauty is easy. Gaby’s role is minimal but she still dances beautifully, still works hard at every practice. The show opens at the end of the week but Gaby can’t concentrate on the show. Her thoughts are too preoccupied with the Russian agent who is sitting once again in the theatre. 

He is in the back row this time, no doubt to resist being in the way as the music starts again. Gaby’s slippers slip across the polished stage and she dances once more. The piano music starts light and soft. It’s all upbeat until they begin the second arc when Gaby’s finger is pricked by a spindle and she collapses on the stage like a puppet whose strings have been cut. She lays on the black stage in her bright pink, eyes closed with her limbs looking broken. Then she gets up and they do it again and again until her muscles are fighting her. 

They go until the director calls for a break. Illya is gone when she looks up from her position on the stage.

She doesn’t see Illya the next day at practice or dinner. He seems to never be around anymore. When she looks left and right there is no towering KGB agent looming in the distance. Her mood dampens slightly but she keeps dancing. She is the prima ballerina and cannot slow down once. She can’t allow herself to look weak just before the show opens. No matter her uncle’s plans for her, if she does well on the Paris stage then she has a chance at the Royal Theatre in London. Only her uncle makes things more and more difficult. His constant watching and comments drains her. He is always watching, not like Illya who does more than watch. Illya studies the way she moves, he watches the whole story. Uncle Rudi just wants to live her story. Gaby tries to shake Illya from her thoughts, tries to ignore the feel of his hand on her waist when she does another turn on stage. It’s hard to shake the feeling of him when part of her doesn’t want to let go. 

\----

Illya keeps his distance. Uncle Rudi’s threat may have been empty but it’s not a chance he can take. He has enough shame to hold onto, he does not need to make Gaby bear any of it. He does not want her to know his father’s crimes or his family’s. Instead he chooses to stay away from the practices. He instead watches the hotel and watches the people filter in and out. He listens to the gossip among the girls. While most of them chase the ideas of a Parisian love affair, they show no tell-tale signs of defecting. 

Illya writes another report, he leaves out Gaby once more. He writes of Paris instead, telling them the French are too loose and in need of better order. He mails it off at the front desk of the hotel, catching sight of Gaby as she comes in from practice, hair a mess and sweat slicked. He parts his lips to greet her but she turns her head away and continues on to her room.

\----

The show opens in two nights and the director won’t stop shouting at her. Gaby pushes herself to the breaking point. Her nerves are on fire, her muscles are liquid but she can’t seem to pull off the final leap. Each time her pointe shoes slip and she falls hard. Her legs are covered in bruises by the time she manages to keep herself on her feet. The director shouts in Russian once more, voice booming over the theatre ceiling as he slams his cane over and over on the floor.

“Again, again, again!” he shouts it with an angry, red face. So Gaby goes again and again. She does until the tears slip over her cheeks. She tastes salt on her bottom lip as she turns one final move. Dancing is no longer fun and carefree. It’s not even an art as her bones threaten to break under the pressure of her constant turning. She moves once more, feeling the fall and spots Illya standing in the middle of the theater. He nods his golden head to her as if reminding her she can do it and she does the final turn.

She lands it perfectly and the other ballerinas erupt into applause as she lands the move and the arc is over. The music stops and the ballerinas scatter for a moment while Gaby pats her face with a towel. Illya moves close to the stage, passing her a water bottle.

“Where have you been?” Gaby pants softly taking a long drink of the water. It escapes her lips and slips down the long trail of her throat, Illya finds himself watching it drip into the curve of her leotard before clearing his throat.

“Letting you practice.” He turns his gaze over and sees Gaby’s uncle staring at him. Gaby doesn’t seem to notice. Instead she swallows down the rest of the water and passes the now empty glass back to Illya. He takes it and his fingers hesitate touching hers.

“Well don’t,” She says it so carelessly, almost loud enough for the world to hear. “I like you here.” She nods towards the audience seats and he smiles softly as she lets go of the glass.

“Is that compliment?” He asks quietly and Gaby pats at her face once more, hiding a smile behind her towel.

“I like you to stay here Illya.” She breathes softly as the commotion of the practice picks up once more. Illya lingers next to the stage for a moment and she squats down to get close to his face as she whispers to him, “Can you stay?”

He nods just as the piano picks up again. 

She doesn’t tell him that his presence is the only thing that keeps her dancing.

\----

Illya goes to every practice and soundcheck. The stage is a commotion both the day and night before the show. He watches as every ballerina takes their role and dances until the director is satisfied. He writes his reports while the girls practice. None of them have given him any cause for concern, but he feels like he needs to add himself to the list of potential defectors. The more his gaze trails to Gaby the more he knows he could give up the world he has for the chance of her. It’s foolish and he knows it, but the woman doesn’t see him as foolish. Gaby sees him as a man a little broken but still good. She makes him dance, makes him smile with her own infectious one. 

They stop for a costume change and Illya mails off another report. 

\----

“What do you think of Italy?” Gaby asks, reaching past him and stealing a piece of his orange. He’s been peeling an orange on the balcony for the last ten minutes while Gaby has her legs up and ice on her knees. 

“Is nice but little hot.” Illya smiles, handing her another wedge. Gaby takes it and pops it in her mouth, smiling up at at him with the meat of the fruit poking between her lips.

“But to live?” she asks swallowing down the wedge and sighing softly as she adjusts the ice on her knees to her thighs where her muscles must still burn. Illya wipes his hands clean and wraps his fingers around her ankles carefully, he runs his palm along her calf and starts a slow massage, working her muscles. Gaby moans softly at the touch and Illya finds he likes the sound that leaves her lips. 

“It would be nice place to live.” He nods then sends her a questioning look, “Why so interested in Italy?” 

Gaby doesn’t answer him right away, she simply stretches her legs out in his hold and rolls her shoulder muscles carefully. “Not Russia, anywhere but there.” Gaby hums as he slides his calloused palm over her shin and is careful with her bruises. He pauses for a moment and then looks down at her legs. 

“You do not like Russia?” he asks quietly and she sighs softly.

“I like you and you’re pretty Russian,” she answers quietly before letting her head fall back against the iron chair. Her arms fold across her belly and she relaxes for a moment. “I used to want to dance on the Royal theatre stage, but I don’t want to live behind a wall forever. People weren’t meant for walls to keep them in. ” She stretches her legs in his lap.

“Used to?” 

Gaby drags her teeth over her bottom lip slowly and sighs quietly, “I used to love to dance but now it’s more for my uncle than anyone. Him and that silly wall he loves to keep me behind.” 

Illya nods and moves his thumbs in small circles, working her muscles as she breathes in another soft sigh and her toes curl for a moment, “You are from East Berlin…” He says like he doesn’t know and she nods to him softly. He moves his thumbs a little lower, over the tops of her feet, “Your Uncle Rudi is very invested in you.” 

“I don’t want to go back behind that wall, Illya. Even if it means dancing until my legs fall off.” He slows his hands on her legs and then slides his hands down to her ankles and gives her a soft squeeze. It’s a soft reassuring action that has her melting against his hold. A moment of silence slips past them before she parts her lips, “My uncle is only invested in my money. If I become the star he wants then he is well taken care.” 

“You won’t.” Illya clears his throat and Gaby draws her gaze to him, “Go back behind the wall. You will not if I can help you.” 

She laughs softly, not believing his words.

“I promise.” Illya adds as if he needs to convince not only her but himself as well. “ Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to go talk to very boring people.” He lets go of her ankles and leaves her stretched out on the balcony. 

“Leaving me just to go talk to your superiors?” Gaby asks before he makes it to the door. Illya takes a long look back at her and leans against the edge, hesitating his last step. 

“Something like that.” 

\----

Gaby’s makeup is pale and glittery. She is covered in pale pink and white tulle with small long ribbons along the back of her costume mimicking wings. She is stunning as she takes the stage. Illya’s throat runs dry as he watches her step forward as the prima ballerina. He stands off to the side, watching while her uncle stands on the other side, glaring at him between the girls as they line the stage. 

The music picks up and the curtain rises. 

Gaby steps forward and begins the dance. Her love for the dance is ebbing away. The more her uncle encourages her on, the more she wants to leave her slippers on the stage and walk away. There is no just walking away, not from a wall, not from a life with such burdens. Gaby turns once more on the stage, arms outstretched. 

He watches as she pricks her finger on the spindle, falling to the stage floor in need of saving, in need of a kiss to break the spell as the rest of the ballerinas fall victim to a cruel reign of thorns and nightmares.

Illya writes his last report on a scrap of paper with a messy script. He breaks regulations writing a fast and hurried report of suspected defectors. 

\----

 

He pulls her off stage in the middle of intermission. The curtains are barely closed and he sweeps in for her. She drops her water glass backstage and collides with his chest as he hauls her into the dark hallway of the backstage area. 

“Illya!” she gasps out his name at his sudden pulling. There is tulle and discarded costumes all around them. The chatter of the ballerinas and the crowd beyond the curtains is enough to blot out their conversation and Illya is grateful for it all. 

“You are beautiful on stage,” he pants out softly and Gaby turns her head up. His pale face is flushed and he looks worried compared to his normal stoic form. For a moment nothing happens but then a smile blooms over her face.

“Thank you.” She gestures to the long pink tulle that is spread along her hips and she reaches up to pat his cheek softly. Her palm rubs against his jaw, playing with the stubble. He closes his eyes and leans into her touch.

“Gaby, I tried to talk to your uncle about you. About us.” He’s not making much sense with his words, they’re clipped and desperate like his hold on her.

“About us?” Gaby blinks a few times and shakes her head, “Illya, what are you going on about? You know how he is, you weren’t supposed to tell anyone.” She swallowed softly and stepped up to him on the tips of her pointe shoes. She is only slightly taller and it makes him smile just for a moment. He draws his hands around her middle slowly. 

“I asked him for permission. Is the noble thing to do, the courteous way to win his trust.” 

She pulls back for a moment. “Permission? As if I am not my own woman?” 

He shakes his head, golden hair catching the bits of spotlights filtering into the back. She watches him smile. He is excruciatingly handsome and she feels every single defense she’s ever built come crumbling down. She smooths her hands away from his cheeks to his jacket and he leans in a bit, “I know you are your own. I should have come to you first. However, we only have a little bit of time. If we don’t do this now, I will not see you when we go home. I will be shipped elsewhere.”

She looks confused by his words, shaking her dark head to him. “I’ll just go with you…” 

“Where they will send me, you can not go. This is not a fairytale Gaby, you are not the sleeping princess here. You are what they will hold against me. You are what they will take away from me. They will take you back behind the Wall where you do not belong.”

Something in his words strikes her hard in the chest and suddenly the idea of not seeing him again is something she can’t quite process. The idea of people taking him away from her is one she doesn’t even want to think of. He can’t leave her yet, she’s only just started to love him. A frown pulls at her lips and he reaches up with his free hand, thumb swiping under her lip as if he can wipe away her worry. She steps into him and he drops his hand to her waist, pulling her in. They are mere inches apart now, wrapped up in the warmth that the other provides. 

“If you kiss me...” Gaby whispers the words against his mouth, their lips aren’t quite touching yet. He can feel the heat of her breath ghosting over his bottom lip. Her fingers slip over the lapel of his uniform jacket, “Does that break the spell? Do we get to leave the Iron Curtain?”

Desperation lingers in the air and sinks into his bones. Illya doesn’t hesitate. His lips crash down over hers and it’s like everything he’s ever dreamed up. She is warm and inviting, tasting like warm apple cider and something else. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but it’s all Gaby. She is rebellious even in her kissing, her teeth nip at his bottom lip and he opens up to her. She kisses him with full force, bruising his lips and her own. A soft hum leaves her lips and he catches it on the tip of his tongue, dragging it over her bottom lip. 

“Come with me,” he manages against her lips. He wraps an arm around her slender form, pulling her in, costume and all. 

Her brows pull together and she looks up at him in confusion, “Illya, what are you talking about? You just said I couldn’t go with you.” His grip on her tightens and he lets his forehead crash along hers, down to her temple. He keeps his mouth against her cheek softly.

“Gaby, please come with me somewhere else. We will go, we will get on the first plane out of here.”

“To Russia?” she squeezed out the words and it sounds painful to his ears. He shakes his head and his fingers on her tighten.

“No, no, no.” He repeats the word over and over again. She feels something wet hit her cheek and she doesn’t have to open her eyes to know he’s crying. He buries his nose in the crook of her neck, stooping low over her. Illya inhales sharply, “We will go anywhere. America… Italy, London, anywhere without that wall. You will not have to dance if you do not want to. You do not have to dance at all. Except with me.” 

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. She stands there for a moment, soaking them all in one by one. Her lips part for a moment in surprise and her eyes go wide. He pulls her in closer, grip so tight that it’s a miracle she hasn’t been crushed. Her heart skips a beat and she swallows down a bubble of hysterical laughter as she begins to nod towards him, finding her words. 

“Y-yes, God yes! Yes!” Her hands go up along his lapel and she wraps her arms around his neck. She hooks him in close, draws him down so her forehead can press comfortably against his. His nose bumps hers and she relishes in the feeling of how easily they fit together. She holds onto him, keeping him in place and another soft laugh leaves her lips. It’s music to his ears and he hauls her up off of her feet, twirls her in place. Happiness floods Gaby’s system.

This time she closes her eyes as the world spins by, enveloped in the warm feel of him against her. 

\----

They don’t return to the train after the final curtain call. Gaby doesn’t even return to the stage. When the intermission bell chimes, the curtains open and the sleeping princess is gone. Her bed is empty, the stage has been robbed. Her uncle shouts in the quiet audience, standing in his threadbare suit and thick glasses. He points an accusing finger towards the stage and anger radiates off of his words, but the show goes on. The stage has been robbed and he has been robbed, Rudi’s dreams of fame and fortune are crumbling. His glasses slip down the bridge of his nose as he yells something in his native tongue, angry that his most prized possession is getting away.

Their suitcases are found empty and abandoned in the back of the theatre. 

The KGB begins a manhunt and the Soviet Ballet company replaces their prima ballerina with a red-headed understudy who finishes the show without a standing ovation. 

\---  
Gaby enjoys the strip of Broadway in New York City. Her husband enjoys watching her dance to the music afterwards. All their furniture gets pushed to the walls and he plays the ever eager audience as she twirls along the front of the living room, no longer missing the polished stage floors. Sometimes he even gets up and joins her. He wraps his arms around her middle and draws her in, she teaches him to waltz. It’s a slow process and he swears he has two left feet, but Gaby makes him dance until she can no longer stand on her feet for long periods of time. They dance freely, away from any wall. 

After five years, the KGB call their manhunt off.

Illya names his son after a great composer. 

Gaby takes their daughter to her first ballet lesson at the age of four.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta @blueincandescence for going through and fixing all my mistakes. Ya'll she did amazing, on this fic and I owe her so much. Thank you for reading and to @thoughtsthatfester for allowing me to take on this prompt. I had a lot of fun writing non-spies of these two. Thank you to everyone who reads my works and comments on them, it means the world to me and I hope you enjoyed it!


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